The Shadow Isle (42 page)

Interesting,
Laz thought.
Faharn always envied Pir’s horse mage abilities. I wonder if that’s why they separated?

The strength of his scrying images gave him hope that he could still perform the one dweomer he truly craved: flight. He got up and stripped off his clothes, a clumsy job with so few fingers left to him. Just in case he managed to transform, he packed the clothes away in the sack and tied it shut as securely as he could with his maimed hands. He hopped up onto one of the rocks and stood naked. In the warm sunlight he breathed deeply, steadily.

When he pictured the raven in his mind, the form came to him, as strong and clear as ever. He imagined it standing outside of himself, prepared himself for an effort of will, and found himself inside the raven form before he could even say aloud the formulaic names. With a caw of triumph he hopped up and down and flapped his wings.

When he spread his wings, however, the feeling of triumph vanished. Dweomer had created his wing tips from his hands, and like his hands, the tips of his wings showed damage. What would those missing feathers do to his control? The raven existed, but could he fly? Only one way to find out—with a defiant caw Laz leaped into the air.

Flapping hard, he gained height, found a rising thermal, and soared.
Success!
At least at first—when he tried to land, the missing feathers blunted his wings and spoiled their perfect camber. He tumbled in the air, squawked, fluttered, and finally managed to glide back to the rock with some of his dignity intact.
Not so easy,
he thought,
I’ll need a fair bit of practice.
The next challenge would be carrying his sack of belongings. He hopped up onto it and sank his talons into the cloth, then chanced to glance at Haen Marn.

In the raven form Laz saw with etheric sight, not his normal vision. The island had disappeared into an enormous swirl of silvery blue energy that swept the lake up like a waterspout. At first, in fact, Laz thought he was seeing a real waterspout, then remembered that no wind blew in the cloudless sky. Inside the throbbing mass he could just discern slender lines of light like gold wires. They swung back and forth, twisted around each other only to uncurl, glimmered and darkened only to brighten again while the silver-blue energy-mist swirled around them.

As he watched, this tremendous play of dweomer force suddenly coalesced into images of the island, its lake, and its manse, a clear and vivid view. Another moment, and the images vanished. The play of lights began again—only to produce another image, slightly different, and then another, all of them laced with silver and gold.

For a long time he stared, fascinated, at the true form of Haen Marn.

Finally he wrenched his gaze away. He had his own affairs to attend to. Although he was tempted to fly straight to Sidro, he decided that it would be best to join up with Faharn first rather than go charging into the midst of an Ancients’ camp. Faharn could tell him what had happened to everyone over the winter and explain why the outlaw band had split into two. Although he had no idea of Faharn’s precise location, once he created an astral tunnel that would lead him to the mother roads, he could build an image of Faharn and use it as a focus. The road itself would find him as rapidly and surely as a hunting dog finds prey.

This close to the astral vortex that was Haen Marn, however, working any dweomer more complex than the raven transformation would be profoundly dangerous. The tunnel working—Laz’s own discovery—was dangerous enough on its own. He would have to get some miles away, he decided, before risking it. Once again he got a secure grip on his sack, then rose, flapping hard, and headed straight west. As he flew, he was thinking of Sidro.

The misty rain had cleared, leaving the roads too damp for dust but not wet enough for mud. Dallandra, her women, her squad of archers, and Penna, driving a pony cart with their possessions and supplies, had a pleasant journey to Cengarn in the bright warm weather. On the second day, as they were riding through meadowlands only a few miles from the city, their escort received some unexpected reinforcements. Vantalaber, riding in the lead, suddenly raised his arm and pointed at the sky.

“Dragons!” he said. “Look!”

Dallandra glanced up to see two dragons circling high above them: Rori and Arzosah, she assumed. They dropped lower, allowing her to see them more clearly. While one of them was indubitably Arzosah, the other, a smaller wyrm, had wings as dark a green as a pine tree in winter, and its body shone a glimmery gold.

“Arzosah!” Dallandra called out. “Land over in the meadow, and I’ll come join you.”

The black dragon dipped her head to acknowledge the call, then lowered a wing and turned toward the meadow. The smaller wyrm followed. By the time that Dallandra had dismounted and walked over to meet them, they were both stretched out, nose to tail, basking. Some fifty yards’ worth of scales glittered in the sun. Arzosah got up and waddled over to greet Dallandra. The smaller dragon lifted her head, but at a word from Arzosah she stayed where she was.

“That’s my daughter, Medea,” Arzosah said in Elvish. “That’s her false-name, of course—a fancy of her late father, my former mate. He named her after a famous Greggyn woman that he admired. ”

“That’s nice.” Dallandra had never heard of Medea, famous or not. “She’s very beautiful.”

“Of course she is.” Arzosah rumbled softly, her equivalent of a smile. “My second hatchling, she was, and I must admit that she turned out well. I decided to bring her along when Rori asked me to come guard you. Four wings shelter more eggs from the rain than two, as they always say. Rori’s gone off to scout the Horsekin again, which is why he didn’t come himself.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Dallandra said. “I’m sincerely grateful. These days you never know what might happen.”

“Too true, alas. You’re welcome. We’ll stay with your alar after you all leave Cengarn. I want to keep an eye on Prince Dar. Now, if we run into trouble, I can summon my older daughter as well. Mezzalina, my elder mate called her for a false name. For the nonce, I’ve left her in the lair to care for my young son.” Arzosah paused, then rumbled loudly and long. “The look on your face, Dalla! Absolutely bursting with curiosity! I know you’re wondering who the father of that son may be.”

“Well, I can’t deny it.”

“I think me you can guess the answer.” Arzosah lifted a wing, then folded it close to her body.

Dallandra found herself utterly speechless.
Why am I surprised?
she thought.
It’s the dweomer of the thing, I suppose.
She had somehow assumed that two species so completely different could never—
but he is a dragon now
, she reminded herself. Arzosah was watching her with one huge eye half-closed, as if she were smiling to herself.

“You’re embarrassed, aren’t you?” Arzosah said. “I don’t understand why. We’ve both had more than one mate.”

Dallandra had to admit that the dragon was right—it wasn’t the hatchling itself that was troubling her, but its getting.

“Is your lair nearby?” Dallandra managed to speak at last.

“No,” Arzosah said. “It’s off to the west in a fire mountain, in fact. By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I destroyed that wretched bone whistle. I dropped it into a little pool of steaming rockblood down on the floor of the cavern. It burned with a puff of nasty smelling smoke.”

“You’re lairing inside a living fire mountain? I thought that you’d choose a dead one.”

“What good would that be in the snows? But it’s only a sleeping mountain. We’ll be able to tell if it’s beginning to wake. It takes a mountain a long time to wake. It groans, it shudders, and slowly its fires rise.” The dragon rumbled again. “Unless, of course, it gets a bit of help from dragonish dweomer.”

Dallandra shuddered at the thought. Arzosah raised her head and looked over Dallandra’s shoulder to the meadow beyond.

“Who’s that?” the dragon asked.

Dallandra turned to see Sidro trotting across the meadow toward them. “Sidro, a friend of mine,” Dalla said. “She looks awfully excited about something. Here, she only knows a little Eluish, so if you could lower yourself to speak the language of men—”

The dragon heaved a massive, vinegar-scented sigh, but she did comply. “Here, Sidro,” Arzosah called out in Deverrian. “I won’t eat you. You may come closer.”

With a hesitant smile, Sidro joined them. “Dalla, my apologies, but I did have the strangest feeling just now. Laz is back, I be sure of it in my heart, back and thinking of me. I did feel the touch of his mind on mine.”

“Oh, did you now?” Dallandra said. “You’re certain?”

“I am, and deep in my very soul. I thought I’d best tell you straightaway.”

“And I’m glad you did. I wonder if this means that Haen Marn’s back?”

The dragon growled under her breath. “Haen Marn? Is that where that slimy little sorcerer was, off in Alban with Haen Marn?”

“What? Alban? Where’s that?” Dallandra felt like growling herself. “Are you telling me that you knew where Haen Marn was?”

“Um, well, not precisely.” Arzosah’s normally huge voice had dwindled to a hatchling’s chirp.

“You knew!” Dallandra snarled. “You knew, and you didn’t tell anyone!”

“No one asked me.” Arzosah curled a paw and studied her claws. “Besides, I didn’t
precisely
know. I was guessing, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I might have been wrong.”

“You weaselly wyrm!”

“I truly wasn’t sure.” Arzosah spoke quickly, as if trying to change the subject. “I hoped it wasn’t there. It’s an awful place, Alban. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, not even Haen Marn.”

“You must have been in this Alban country, then.”

“I have, and an even nastier country called Lloegr. Alban’s a few miles north of it. Them and their wretched Lord Yaysoo! I never want to see either place again. Don’t you try to order me to go there, either, because it would mean my death.”

“I have no intention of ordering you to do anything of the sort if the island really is back, so you’d better hope it is.” Dallandra’s curiosity fought with her anger, then won. “Yaysoo? Is he their king or suchlike?”

“No, their god. He’s a sheep. The Lamb of God, they call him, so I assume his father’s a sacred ram. Yaysoo’s mother was a human woman called Miriam, and the ram got her with child somehow or other. It’s a very complicated story, and I only heard bits of it. The high priest carries a shepherd’s crook, probably to summon Yaysoo with.” Arzosah paused for a snort. “They weren’t particularly sheeplike themselves, those worshipers, persecuting poor innocent dragons, chasing us with spears and trying to kill us for no particular reason.”

“No particular reason, hmm?”

“Well, perhaps a few small ones.” Arzosah flattened her ears like an angry cat. “Now, once I figured out that these people worshiped sheep, I tried to parley with them. I was quite willing to never kill a sheep again. There’s not much meat on them, anyway, for a dragon, and that nasty wool gets stuck in your teeth. Unfortunately, the only language we had in common was the Rhwman tongue, and they spoke it very badly. I’m not sure they understood what I was offering. They started throwing stones at me, and the high priest actually hit me on the nose with his stupid crook.”

“What did you do?”

“I ate him, of course. What would you have done in my situation? ”

“I certainly wouldn’t have eaten the high priest.”

“Probably not.” Arzosah considered this for a moment. “He was awfully tough. But after that, the persecutions only got worse. So we dragons left the sheep to Yaysoo and came here.”

“Let me see if I understand you.” Dallandra made herself speak calmly. “You can travel back and forth between these two worlds, ours and the sheep people’s. That’s why you think Haen Marn may have been able to do the same.”

“I could once. Not now. Evandar’s dead, and his lands destroyed, and I wouldn’t care to get lost in what remains, thank you very much.”

“Well, to be honest, no more would I. So you knew about Evandar’s lands back then, did you?”

“We knew Evandar. He and his people used to go back and forth twixt here and Lloegr, probably to cause as much trouble as possible in both worlds. I will say one good thing about that nasty little clot of ectoplasm. When he realized that we dragons were in danger, he offered to bring us to a new home. Little did I know that he’d someday trick me out of my true name! How like him!”

Dallandra had heard her complain about Evandar so often that she saw no need to defend him, especially with more pressing matters in hand.

“But surely Rori told you we were trying to find Haen Marn,” Dalla said. “You might have told him. Why didn’t you?”

Arzosah squirmed, slapping her tail this way and that so viciously that cut grass sprayed up around it. Sidro took a few cautious steps back.

“Why?” Dallandra repeated. “Tell me!”

“Because of Angmar, of course. Do you think I don’t know that she’s my rival for Rori’s heart?” Arzosah’s tail arched up over her back, and she rose on her forefeet.

Sidro screamed. Arzosah flopped back, then swung her head around to look at her.

“Oh, do stop making that noise!” Arzosah returned to speaking with Dallandra. “I’m tempted to eat Angmar and put an end to her.”

Dallandra drew herself up to full height. “Arzosah Sothy Lorez oh Haz!” She intoned the name with dweomer power behind every syllable. “By the power of your true name, I forbid you to do any such thing. I forbid you from bringing the least harm to Angmar, to her kin, to those who befriend her, to her island. I forbid you from threatening, frightening, or harassing them in any manner.”

Arzosah whined like a kicked dog. Her head drooped almost to her paws. “So be it,” Arzosah said. “I hate it, but I shall obey.”

“Good!” Dallandra paused to gather her breath and her wits. “Besides, as things stand now, she’s hardly a rival at all. What would she want with a dragon for a husband? She’s what? A bare hundredth of Rori’s size, and that’s just to begin with. How would she feed him? Where would he lair on her island?”

“Oh.” Arzosah turned her head and clacked her jaws. Her tail twitched, but only at the tip. If ever a dragon could be embarrassed, it seemed she was. “Humph, here I’ve been vexing myself for naught.”